“Then I seized my sword.  In his odious, peevish voice he said something —­I forget what nonsense—­to me.  Then it appeared to me as if all the sheep and goats over which he had squandered his time were bleating at me.  The blood rushed to my head.  The room spun round me in a circle.  Black spots on a red ground danced before my eyes.

“And then—­What flashed in my right hand was my own naked sword!  I neither heard nor said anything further.  Nor had I planned, nor ever thought of, what then occurred. . . .  But suddenly I felt as if a mountain of oppressive lead had fallen from my breast.  How easily I could breathe again!  All that had just before turned round me in a mad, whirling dance stood still.  The sun shone brightly in the large room; a shaft of light, showing dancing dust, fell on Geta.  He sank on his knees close to me, with my sword in his breast.  My mother made a fruitless effort to shield him.  His blood trickled over her hand.  I can still see every ring on those slender, white fingers.  I also remember distinctly how, when I raised my sword against him, my mother rushed in between us to protect her favorite.  The sharp blade, as she tried to seize it, accidentally grazed her hand—­I know not how—­only the skin was slightly cut.  Yet what a scream she gave over the wound which the son had given his mother!  Julia Maesa, her daughter Mammara, and the other women, rushed in.  How they exaggerated!  They made a river out of every drop of blood.

“So the dreadful deed was done; and yet, had I let the wretch live, I should have been a traitor to Rome, to myself, and to my father’s life’s work.  That day, for the first time, I was ruler of the world.  Those who accuse me of fratricide no doubt believe themselves to be right.  But they certainly are not.  I know better.  You also know now with me that destiny, and not I, struck Geta out from among the living.”

Here he sat for some time in breathless silence.  Then he asked Melissa: 

“You understand now how I came to shed my brother’s blood?”

She started, and repeated gently after him:  “Yes, I understand it.”

Deep compassion filled her heart, and yet she felt she dare not sanction what she had heard and deplored.  Torn by deep and conflicting feelings she threw back her head, brushed her hair off her face, and cried:  “Let me go now; I can bear it no longer!”

“So soft-hearted?” asked he, and shook his head disapprovingly.  “Life rages more wildly round the throne than in an artist’s home.  You will have to learn to swim through the roaring torrent with me.  Believe me, even enormities can become quite commonplace.  And, besides, why does it still shock you when you yourself know that it was indispensable?”

“I am only a weak girl, and I feel as if I had witnessed these fearful deeds, and had to bear the terrible blood-guiltiness with you!” broke from her lips.